


Transmogrification All Around

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [21]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Door’s pregnant?”</p><p>Tom stared at Pamela with huge eyes. </p><p>Oops.</p><p>“Uh, yeah.”</p><p>“With…a baby?”</p><p>“Yes, a baby. I doubt she’s pregnant with a dog or something else weird. Though, she does claim the child is an alien sometimes, but I think she’s joking.”</p><p>“Is it…Ben’s?”</p><p>Pamela nodded. “Who else’s would it be?”</p><p>Tom looked as if someone had hit him over the head with a two by four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transmogrification All Around

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Flying during your second trimester is still a whole lot of not fun. Okay, so I threw up a lot less and I was in business class rather than crammed into the back of the plane in steerage, but it was still an eight hour flight while pregnant. 

Not my idea of a good time. 

At least the seat was bigger. And I could stretch out my legs a bit. Oh, and there was a pillow. Let me tell you one thing: you love pillows while pregnant. Trust me. I used to hardly use my pillow, but now I sleep with two Boppy kidney shape cuddle pillows, a Boppy pregnancy wedge, and on top of that two regular pillows under my head. (I didn’t bring the pillows with me because Ben told me he’d ordered the same pillows for me to have at his flat. I kind of love him. I didn’t even ask him to do that. He just did it.)

I’m hardly showing yet cannot get comfortable without an army of pillows.

I still do not fit into maternity clothes and do not look pregnant. I’m eighteen weeks along and I STILL look like I’m just kind of fat (if I wear a tight fitting shirt, which I do not, as I don’t want people to think I’m fat). 

Is this flight over yet?

God, I hope so. They claimed we were landing in twenty, but I swear to god twenty minutes passed five lifetimes ago.

Oh, no. I think I have to pee. 

No. I just peed. And I didn’t drink anything since! No! I thought the whole peeing thing was supposed to let up during second trimester. I can’t remember who, but someone told me two hours, which after all the peeing I did first trimester sounded like bliss. 

It’s been twenty minutes!

Oh, just kill me now. 

They ought to make diapers for pregnant women who fly these days. Though, I guess technically they do make adult diapers. 

Mental note: get some diapers for next flight.

Gross.

I can’t believe I just thought that. 

* * *

I loath flying. Why do I keep subjecting myself to these stupid long flights?

I’ve managed to get through customs (without telling anyone I was on a mission from God this time) and have reached the arrivals area where Ben told me he’d meet me. 

He better be here or I might murder him in his sleep. These bags are heavy. How did they not break the weight limit the airlines put on bags? I swear they are hundred pounds each. Bloody hell. 

“You look like you’re plotting murder,” says a smooth baritone voice somewhere above my head. 

I look up and find Ben smirking at me and wearing a really stupid looking hat. 

Seriously?

What is with these hats? Does he go out and say, “Oh, looky here! This hat is hideous! I must buy it and wear it out in public to cover up my gorgeous hair!”

“I am plotting a murder,” I grumble, shifting on my feet as he reaches to take the bags away from me. “Yours.”

Ben quirks an eyebrow behind the glasses he’s wearing for some reason. 

Why is he wearing glasses? They are very similar to the Buddy Holly ones I’ve got, only I can tell he is not blind because he’s got no bug eyes like I do when I wear mine. They also clash badly with this ugly hat. Then again, I think Ben dressed himself in the dark. He does this sometimes. I simply thought the occasional fashion disasters were just that: occasional fashion disasters. I’ve come to realize, when Benedict Cumberbatch dresses himself, he simply cannot. He might be a little better than he was when he first came onto the public scene, but he still seems to lack the ability to realize he shouldn’t wear hats. And what kind of pants are those? They look like Princess Jasmine’s pants from _Aladdin_ only they are black poplin. 

“Did you dress yourself this morning?” I ask, still eyeing his horrible outfit. 

(BTW, my whole massive dictionary I used to have in my mind took a vacation. For the life of me, I cannot remember any big words and tend to use the same five ones over and over like a normal, non-word loving person. See! I know there is a word for that! I just can’t remember!)

“Well, yes,” Ben says, frowning a little as he loads my bags onto a luggage cart he magically made appear out of thin air. 

OMG. Why didn’t I get a freaking luggage cart? 

I’m seriously loosing my mind, people. 

“I’m blending in,” he adds, looking up from where he’s arranging my bags so we can get the hell out of the airport. 

“You do not blend in when you were those stupid hats,” I inform him, grabbing it off his head. 

He desperately tries to snatch it back from me, yet somehow I manage to keep the hat away from him. Ben scowls, smoothing his out of control hair. 

I giggle. 

No wonder he was wearing a hat. His hair is trying to do this strange thing where it’s both straight and curly at the same time. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, especially with the pajama like bottoms he’s wearing. 

For all I know he did just roll out of bed.

Bastard.

I should give him the hat back, but I’m not feeling that charitable, so I slam the hat on my own head, plastering down my own horrible hair. (Plane was dry, here is humid, so my hair decided to channel Carrot Top on his best hair day.)

“You look ridiculous,” Ben mutters, shaking his head at me. 

He clearly was prepared for me to steal the stupid fedora off his head, as he pulls out a black beanie from his pocket and jams it on his head before he starts off to the exit. 

Bastard. 

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

_Pamela_

Excited for the holidays, Pamela had left early on Saturday morning in order to get ahead of the massive ice/snow storm that was bearing down on Enid, but didn’t exactly make it as it showed up in the middle of the night instead of late morning as they’d been predicting all week. (The weather people were kind of silly about winter weather. The entire Oklahoma City region stopped operating when any winterish weather occurred.) 

The roads were empty as Pamela eked out of Enid. By the time she reached the state-line, the weather had moved to the east and the rest of her drive was without problem— and she could drive the speed limit which made it go all the faster than it’d started out. 

A few days at home (well, at her dad’s house— her mother’s home was run over with bed and breakfast guests and too much holiday cheer) were relaxing. Christmas Eve snuck up on Pamela. She woke the morning of wondering why her father’s house smelled so good. It was only after she was greeted by her brother Simon’s new fiancé did she remember they were celebrating Christmas Eve. 

Pamela got some expensive shampoo, a new dye job on her head, a hair cut, and a few donations made in her name to various charities. The new fiancé was confused on the whole giving donations and made her displeasure known there weren’t enough boxes to unwrap. 

Simon looked mildly embarrassed.

Pamela hadn’t been sure what to give the new fiancé, so she’d gone with a donation to UNICEF, as who gets upset with a donation made to help starving children?

Evidently the woman who Simon was planning to marry. 

To shut the woman up, she let the woman have her way with her hair. Something Pamela had learned in Enid: she had no time for hair upkeep.  

“It’ll be so much easier if you just dye it this lovely shade of honey blonde. I’ll do it. I’m a stylist,” the woman announced, brandishing a wheel of hair color at Pamela. 

So, Pamela spent most of Christmas smelling like hair dye.

Granted, the results were good. 

“You look like Olivia Palermo now. Not fair,” the fiancé groused as she combed out Pamela’s hair. 

Having no idea who that was, Pamela kept her mouth shut. 

“You need a hair cut.”

An hour later, after blow drying, curling, and whatever else she did to her hair, the fiancé looked even more upset.

“You really look like her now. Oh, god. The paparazzi will think Tom Hiddleston’s dating Olivia Palermo!”

Pamela began to wonder what her brother saw in this woman, but didn’t question Simon’s choice of bride. It wasn’t her place, really. Besides being a little…self centered, she was okay. Next year Pamela would just put her donation card into a giant box. And maybe remember her name. 

* * *

Arriving in London was like coming home. It felt strange in a sense, as Pamela didn’t live in London and never had. She actually had not spent much time in London in the grand scheme of things— she’d spent more time in the Middle East than London, yet London had a welcome home feeling the moment the plane touched the tarmac. 

Feeling as if she was walking on air, Pamela breezed through customs, got her luggage, and headed to meet Tom at the arrivals gate. She spotted him right away and not because he stuck out or because he was surrounded by swarms of fans. In fact, it seemed no one recognized him. He was simply standing near the front of the crowd wearing a plain, quilted black jacket, a black wool cap over his head, and glasses. 

Why was he wearing glasses?

Pamela slowly walked towards him, frowning a little as she stared at the glasses. She’d never seen him wear glasses before.

“Darling dove!” he greeted the moment he spotted her walking towards him.

He threw his arms out, almost taking out the group of people who were standing next to him. They quickly moved and he was so focused on Pamela he’d totally missed he’d been rude. 

Pamela blinked. 

“Oh, I missed you,” Tom gushed, throwing his arms around her and burying his nose in her hair. “Your hair smells like bubble bath.”

“New shampoo.”

Tom drew away and held her at arm’s length. He looked alarmed.

“You hair. Where did those very American highlights go?”

“I allowed Simon’s fiancé to remove them and dye it this color,” Pamela explained. “The upkeep of the old highlights didn’t jive with life as an IP at Vance. I had like three inches of roots.”

“She cut your hair,” Tom said faintly, picking at the ends that had long lost their curl. Pamela was surprised that the style had held as well as it did since the woman had done it the night before her flight. Pamela, who never had bouncy hair, had kind of bouncy hair today. 

“Oh, I’ll miss those highlights,” Tom sighed, “but this new style works just as well. You still look quite America.”

He gave her a beaming smile, kissed her swiftly, then took her bag from her. 

“Illecebrous as usual,” he added, winking at her.

“What’s with the glasses?”

“Oh, old age is catching up with me, cinnamon. Loosing my eyesight. I need these to drive these days. Cannot see all the signs any more,” Tom complained, with a smile on his face of course. “I assume someday, you’ll succumb to this. Only, let’s hope it’s not for many moons so you may keep flying.”

Pamela nodded, suddenly remembering something important she had wanted to discuss with Tom. She hadn’t thought much about it since the Air Force announced it was letting out quite a few pilots for budget cuts. She happened to fall into the group of heavy pilots they were willing to let out early.

She was conflicted, though. While getting out meant she could get an airline job, or move to London, or do a number of things in the future that a military career wouldn’t really allow— she liked her job. (Well, not her current job, but she liked being in the Air Force for the most part.) She had plans and those plans only worked if she remained in the Air Force and got more flight hours before she was thrown out into the cruel world of commercial airlines. She didn’t have enough hours to be a captain. Hardly enough to be a first officer. And no where near enough to fly for the big companies. And the small companies paid below the poverty line. (Or that’s what it felt like when she saw the salaries.) 

No wonder there was a pilot shortage. 

“Pamela?”

“Huh?” Pamela asked, looking up (and up— she’d forgotten how tall Tom was). 

“You’re somewhere else, love,” Tom quietly said as he led her out of the airport and into the parking garage. 

“Yeah, I know,” Pamela admitted. “But, we can talk about it later. We’ve got that British holiday of Boxing Day to celebrate, right? Aren’t we supposed to go to your mother’s for dinner or something?”

“Tea, yes, but that’s not till this afternoon. We’re going back to my flat first,” Tom said. “What is on your mind?”

He looked mildly concerned.

Pamela rubbed the bridge of her nose, then ran her hands through her super soft, silky hair (still jarring, even though it’d been on her head for the past twenty-four hours in that state). She knew she needed to discuss her thoughts and feelings about this new development with Tom. And the sooner the better. 

“I doubt you’ve pay much attention to American news lately with all the work you’re doing on the play, right?” Pamela asked as the cold, wet air of London enveloped her. 

“No, sorry. Why, what is going on? Are you deploying?”

“No. Not yet,” Pamela assured him. “No. They are cutting down the forces. Mostly the Air Force and Army. I’ve yet to hear they are cutting down the Navy or Marines, but seeing as I’m not in either of those, I haven’t been paying attention to those.”

Tom paused near a car (a rather expensive looking car) and opened the trunk. He frowned at her, but said nothing as he slid her suitcase in. He quickly shut the trunk and walked around the passenger side, opening the door for her. He was wearing an expression that told her he was thinking fast and quickly. 

“So, are you being…let go? Is that the right term for the military? I thought you had contracts?”

“Oh, we do. I’ve lost track of the number of commitments I’ve signed. But, the thing about the military, the contract is kinda oneway. They can break it if they want, but you can’t.”

Tom rolled his eyes. He had learned rather quickly that the less sense it made, the more likely the military was to go do it. A lesson some people took years to learn, but only took Tom a few months. 

“So, yeah, I’ve got a few years left on my commitment, but they’ve got this deal that you can get out early, they’ll give you a year’s salary or something.”

“But you won’t get a pension or anything,” Tom pointed out.

“Well, no, but I’d be out of the Air Force and free to find a job in the private sector.”

She paused a moment to see if he caught on. Tom frowned, but nodded. He walked around and got in on the driver’s side, starting up the car while wearing a slight frown. It was an odd expression on his usually smiling face. Pamela bit her bottom lip, wondering why she was feeling so nervous. 

“I don’t know anything about being a pilot in the private sector,” Tom lamented. “But, if anything, I know it’s hard to get by as a starting pilot. Pilots do not make a lot.”

“No. That’s true.”

“But, you wouldn’t be just starting out, would you?”

“Not exactly. I don’t have enough hours, or the qualifications to work for the big wigs,” Pamela admitted. “Like United, American, Delta. They all want pilots with a lot more hours than me. I could work at the smaller firms, though.”

“But, would you get a job?”

“Likely,” Pamela admitted. “I read a story online about there being a pilot shortage due to low pay and bad hours.”

Tom frowned deeply as he backed out of the parking space. 

“What do you want to do? Do you wish to leave the Air Force? I know you detest your current assignment,” Tom said as he headed out of the parking garage. 

“Yeah, well, the hours suck and people try to kill me on a daily basis.”

“Don’t most people within the military have that problem?”

Pamela chuckled. “True. But death by student pilot wasn’t exactly how I imaged myself going if I was to die in service.”

Pamela noticed Tom clutched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles went white.

“Sorry,” she quietly apologized. “Anyways, if I get out, then I wouldn’t likely deploy ever again, nor would I have to move every three years. And, well, I’d have a little more control over my schedule…you know…to, uh, see you.”

Tom didn’t respond. 

He pulled up to the booth, was super friendly with the lady taking tickets as he paid for his parking, then his face fell back into the serious expression he’d been wearing since he’d gotten into the car. As they drove out of Heathrow, Tom kept holding the steering wheel tighter than need be. Pamela was beginning to wonder if she ought to have just kept her mouth shut when Tom suddenly pulled off the road. He put the car into park and turned towards her. 

“No.”

“No?” Pamela asked. 

“I cannot factor into your choice to leave the military.”

Pamela frowned. “Why not? You’re important to me.”

Tom shook his head. “I know, darling dove, I know. But, this is your career. And while I am flattered you’d leave…even if I’m just one of the reasons, I have a feeling you’re even thinking about leaving is because of me. Am I right?”

Pamela bit her bottom lip again. 

He was right. 

If Tom hadn’t been in the picture, Pamela would NEVER contemplate signing up for the early out. She might still get kicked out, but she’d never leave voluntarily. It was not part of her long term plan. 

But…

“Tom, it’s hard for us to see one another. I mean, who knows if it’d be any easier if I was out in the real world, but…”

“You still might die by stupid pilot in the real world,” Tom pointed out flatly. “You love the C-17. The first day I met you…you spoke of that airplane as I speak of Shakespeare. It’s a passion. You want to fly that plane again, you don’t want to fly passenger flights. And places like…UPS or FedEx…or whatever is over there won’t hire you without another tour on the C-17, will they?”

Pamela shook her head. “No. I don’t think UPS or FedEx has hired in years, though.”

“Well, then you ought to remain where you are till they are hiring again. The pilots they have now will be older the longer you remain in the Air Force. By the time you’re of age to retire, they might be as well.”

“And the economy might change,” Pamela mused. 

“Don’t leave the Air Force unless they force you out,” Tom quietly said. “If I could suddenly have another career that wasn’t acting? If there was some sort of…more stable job near you that popped up…”

Tom looked away, out the window as the dreary sky and the passing cars. 

“I wouldn’t do it. I’m sorry, but…”

“Don’t you be sorry!” Pamela shouted, feeling angry. “You have every right to be selfish, Thomas! I just thought…oh, I don’t know what I thought. With Door being pregnant and the fact I’m almost thirty—”

“Door’s pregnant?”

Tom stared at Pamela with huge eyes. 

Oops.

“Uh, yeah.”

“With…a baby?”

“Yes, a baby. I doubt she’s pregnant with a dog or something else weird. Though, she does claim the child is an alien sometimes, but I think she’s joking.”

“Is it…Ben’s?”

Pamela nodded. “Who else’s would it be?”

Tom looked as if someone had hit him over the head with a two by four. 

“Anyways,” Pamela said to get back on topic, “with all that, I was thinking…I don’t know. Maybe it was time to be…I don’t know. I really don’t know what I was thinking. Or not thinking.”

Pamela buried her face in her hands and let out a frustrated noise. After a moment she felt a warm hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles.  

“Do you want children?”

“I think I do. At some point.”

“You’re not ancient, are you?”

“No, but if I get pregnant, I can’t fly.”

“Okay. That makes sense. Then what would they do with you? They wouldn’t kick you out, would they?”

“No. I’d get the option to leave, but if I didn’t want to, they’d give me a desk job and I’d just be…doing paper work for nine months.”

“Can you fly after you have a baby?”

“I would assume so,” Pamela said. “I don’t know many female pilots. There’s not a lot of us, but I assume they’d have to let me or anyone as if not, there’d likely be a lawsuit. Or something.”

Tom nodded. “So, see, you can still do that aspect if you so wish. You don’t have to have children just because you’re nearing thirty.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know. I don’t want one now.”

“Then why are you even thinking about it?”

“Mostly because Door’s pregnant.”

Tom scratched his head. “That makes sense.”

“Tom, I’d like to talk about this more later,” Pamela said. “Once both of us have had time to think about it more. I didn’t mean to spring it on you this soon. I had…well, I don’t know what I was planning to do.”

Tom snorted. “Yes, I got that feeling. Alright. We’ll discuss it later.”

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

_Dorothea_

“Are you sure you’re pregnant?”

That’s the first thing Pamela Fitch chooses to say to me after not seeing me for four months. She is staring at my stomach like she’s trying desperately to see what most people believe a pregnant woman ought to look like. 

I’m not normal. 

Clearly, like everything else in my life, I am abnormal and totally difficult. 

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure I’m even pregnant with a human being,” I whisper loudly, stepping aside to let her into Ben’s flat.

She steps into the flat, still staring at my belly. 

“Oh, I see it now.”

“You can’t see that I’ve got no waist?”

“What?”

“I have no waist.”

I illustrate my point by pulling the plaid button down shirt I’ve somehow managed to put on. I swear to god I thought I was fat when I wasn’t, as for some unknown reason even though my pants are uncomfortable as hell, most of my shirts still fit and HIDE my bump.

Go figure…

“Oh. Yeah, I see it more so now. Maybe if you wore your normal shirts you’d show more,” Pamela suggests.

“Pamela, I’ve had this shirt for years,” I say, letting go of the fabric and allowing it to fall back into place. 

We both stare at my belly.

“Did you really loose that much weight in the first trimester?”

“No. Maybe five pounds, but they came back quickly. And I added a few more since then,” I inform her. 

I don’t think I’m gaining enough weight, but no one else seems to be troubled by the fact I’ve only really gained three pounds in four months. Nor do they seemed bothered when I random loose two pounds— which is what happened at my last appointment. I was two pounds lighter. And no one was bothered by this. Except me. The doctor keeps telling me I am healthy, the baby’s heart is beating up a storm, and all my tests are in the clear. 

As I stated before: I’m clearly alien. 

“So, where’s Ben?” Pamela asks, glancing around the lounge as if she’s trying to find a sleeping Tom Hiddleston on the couch. 

“Promoting something,” I say. “No clue what he was doing this morning. He likely told me. And then I forgot.”

Pamela eyes me as she removes her coat and hands it to me to hang up. I hold it for a moment, drawing a complete blank on where the coat rack is located. (Ben’s got an actual coat rack.)

“Behind you,” Pamela says, going into the kitchen. 

I turn around and low and behold: coat rack! 

“Did you eat lunch?”

“No. I’m starving,” I suddenly realize. “How the hell did I forget I was hungry?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad you’ve got a business partner and manager. And you live at home,” Pamela mutters as I enter the kitchen to find her going through the cabinets as if she lives in Ben’s flat. She is wearing a look of utter befuddlement. “Did he move everything around again?”

“Huh?”

“Last time I was here, the plates were here, the silverware here, and there were pots and stuff in the oven,” Pamela explains, randomly pointing at cabinets. “It made no sense.”

“Does it make sense now?”

“It makes less sense,” Pamela grumbles, pulling a pile of baking sheets out of the oven and setting them on the island in front of me. “Will he hate me if I reorder his kitchen?”

“No. I might hate you if I can’t find the glasses,” I tell her. “I need water.”

A glass of water suddenly appears in front of me. While reorganizing Ben’s kitchen to her heart’s content, Pamela somehow manages to make me a snack and lunch. I thought she’d come over to watch _Downtown Abbey_ (Ben recorded and saved it when it aired over here as they’re not showing it till January in the US and Pamela is always asleep by the time _Masterpiece Theater_ is on these days. You’d think she was the pregnant one with the amount of naps the woman takes), but clearly she came over to rearrange Ben’s kitchen.

* * *

“Where is the coffee?” Ben asks the next morning.

“In what Pamela says is the pantry. Next to your fridge there,” I say, yawning wildly above my bowl of porridge. (It is not anything like American oatmeal. I don’t know what the hell they do over here to their oats, but this is totally different from what my mother tried to convince me was porridge when I came home from London many moons ago.) 

“Oh,” Ben says, smiling as he begins to go through his own cabinets. “I hope it stays like this. Last time I realized it made no sense and reorganized, someone came in and put it all insane again.”

“Oh?” I ask, looking up with interest. “Who do you think did it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Everyone who knows me knows I don’t really cook all that much,” Ben admits. “But, I do know how. Sometimes I do enjoy it. I tend to do it less these days because someone rearranges my kitchen so I can’t find things.”

“Martin Elf,” I suggest.

“No. While he’d get a kick out of it, I doubt he broke into my flat to do it. The only people with keys to the flat are my PA, my parents, and you.”

“PA.”

“I bet it was my dad,” Ben grumbled. “So, I’m free all day today.”

“You are?”

“Yes. We’re going to the doctor to have the ultrasound, but after that I was thinking we ought to go out. Each time you’ve been here, I’ve never gotten to take you on a proper date.”

“What’s a proper date?” I breezily ask. 

I don’t think we’ve EVER been on a date. 

Unless you count that time we walked through Lilacia Park with Dairy Queen and Basil. But does that count? I wasn’t even aware fully of my feelings for Ben at that point in time.

We did hold hands, though…

“Door?”

“Huh?”

“Welcome back.”

“Where did I go?”

“I’ve no idea,” Ben airily replies, munching on some toast he’s made appear out of nowhere. “But, it must have been nicer than here as you were wearing a rather silly grin.”

He gives me his own silly grin, which only makes me go all mushy. 

“Okay.”

“Okay what, darling?”

“The ultrasound is at ten, so we can go to lunch. You better impress me, Cumberbatch.”

I point a threatening finger at him. All he does is chuckles.

* * *

This is the second time I’ve seen Baby JC and it’s still utter bewildering to think he’s inside of me. Seriously. There is a human being growing inside of me. In that thing that used to bleed and make me curse my existence once in awhile. 

“So, you want to know the sex?” the tech asks.

Ben glances at me.

“Yes,” I say as if they are both idiots. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

I need to know. 

“You’ve got a boy,” the tech happily proclaims, using a little arrow to show us what he’s seeing that makes him tell me I was right and I’m going to be popping out a boy in five months.

“You were right,” Ben breaths, looking awed and a little overwhelmed. 

“It happens occasionally,” I say.

“Ah, so you wanted a boy?” the tech asks

“No, I just figured it was a boy,” I offer. “I didn’t really care either way.”

The tech goes through the rest of the appointment— pointing out things like hands, feet, face, and other things to mostly Ben because I’ve checked out and am currently making lists of names now that I know it’s a boy. While I have never been a big fan of boy names (they are just kind of boring to me), I’ve got a boy to name now.

At least boy’s clothes are cool. I hate little girl clothing's. They’re so…frilly. When I was a teenager, I always wished I’d been born a boy so I could shop on the other side of Abercrombie and Fitch, as I liked that side better. Even now, sometimes I just wish I could throw on a blazer, t-shirt and jeans and look as collected as Tom Hiddleston. Or wear a suit and tie and call it a day.

I get to dress a boy! I can put him in little plaid shirts with vests! And little bow ties! OMG!

“Door?”

“Huh?”

“We’re done,” Ben says, holding up a little card I know are the print outs of the images. I brought the one from my first appointment to show to Ben, but other than the fact we both could tell it was a human being in there, we couldn’t tell much. Well, more than the first ultrasound images I was given, which looked kind of like a bean with little spouts or something. 

Or a blob.

At least he’s no longer a blob.

Ben offers his hand to help me sit up. I take it— his huge hand— and swing my legs over the side. 

Oh god. We’re having a little boy and he’ll likely have huge hands like Ben. God, I hope he does. I stare at my tiny, little hand in his and hope the kid doesn’t end up with girly, little hands. 

“Door?”

“Huh?”

“She’s got it bad, doesn’t she?” the tech laughs. 

“Yes. I’m not sure I ought to let her out alone any longer,” Ben chuckles. “Come along, Door. We’ve got a lunch reservation I’d like not to miss. You can continue your musings on the way.”

“I’ve always been spacey,” I announce.

“I know,” Ben placates. 

I frown, but follow him out of the room. 

Ben hooks his arm through mine and pulls me flush to his side. “What have you been spacing about today, though? You usually have a clue what’s going on around you, but today you’re off in another world.”

“Names,” I instantly say, as that was what I was just thinking about. “And clothes.”

Ben quirks an eyebrow. “Clothes? It’s a boy.”

“I know! Boy’s have better clothes. There’s button down shirts, no pink, no ribbons, and no stupid ruffles. And plaid! And vests. Or waistcoats here.”

Ben laughs as we enter the waiting room. A few people look up and I can tell a few are trying to figure out if the guy in the funny hat and thick plastic glasses is someone they know. 

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

_Pamela_

Tom’s dressing room was plastered with things his fans had sent him. All said very lovely things, some were a little out there, while some were downright works of art. Pamela studied each thing plastered to the various flat surfaces while she waited for Tom to shower off his stage makeup.

“If it weren’t all over, I’d just clear my face and bolt,” he’d said before vanishing into the tiny thing they called a bathroom in the theater. 

Pamela heard the shower turn off and straightened from where her nose was inches away from the mirror studying a rather good drawing of Loki. 

“Just a minute, dove!” Tom shouted.

“Take your time, Thomas,” Pamela called back. 

He said something Pamela was unable to catch, but she still shook her head. Since she’d arrived in London, she knew he was rushing through his post performance rituals in order to get home, as he was arriving a whole lot earlier than he usually did. He burst into the dressing room, his hair still wet and his t-shirt sticking to his body. Pamela laughed at him, pointing at his chest. 

“Giving the fans waiting at the door a show tonight?” she joked. 

He looked down, turned a little pink, and sighed. “Guess I didn’t dry off as much as I thought.”

He tugged at the wet shirt a few times before going back into the bathroom to get his towel. He ran it through his hair a few times before using a dry end to blot at the wetness that was his t-shirt. 

“Why don’t you start over?”

“I only have this one and my sweater.”

“Sucks to be you then,” Pamela commented, picking up her coat from where she’d tossed it when she’d finally managed to find Tom’s dressing room again. He’s shown her where it was, introduced her to a whole slue of people backstage, and told everyone to let her through once the show was over as she was his girlfriend. (He’d looked a little too proud to proclaim this information to various people.) No one stopped Pamela as she made her way backstage after the performance (which was brilliant, even if Pamela had no clue what was really going on half the time because she was too stupid to follow Shakespeare). 

“Not really,” Tom airily said. “I’ll just be shedding it as soon as we get home.”

He gave her one of his beaming smiles, then winked at her. She shook her head at him, even though she was melting a little on the inside. 

* * *

“So, that wasn’t too bad,” Pamela commented as they both sat in the backseat of a hired car that was driving them back to Tom’s flat. “I figured there’d be more.”

“More? No. That’s about what it usually is,” Tom admitted. “Though, they seemed to let me through a little easier tonight.”

“I think the shivering helped,” Pamela dryly said, giving him a look. “If you’d had icicles forming in your hair, I bet they would have pushed you into the car.”

Tom laughed. “Maybe. Not likely. I think they noticed you.”

“I doubt it,” Pamela said. “I didn’t stand behind you while you signed and took pictures. I got into the warm car.”

Tom nodded, lacing his fingers (which were freezing) with Pamela’s. They fell into compatible silence till they reached the flat. Tom thanked the driver and somehow managed to get out and around the car before the driver or Pamela had a chance to react.

“My lady,” Tom said, bowing a little as he opened the door. 

The driver shook his head. 

Pamela rolled her eyes. 

“You’re something else, Hiddleston,” Pamela mockingly complained as she took his hand and let him help her out of the car. “I’m perfectly able to get out of a car myself.”

“I know,” he said, kissing the side of her head. He stuck his head back into the car and bade the driver goodnight. “Now, let’s get inside. I’m arctic.”

Pamela shook her head, but allowed him to all by drag her into the flat. 

An hour later, both Pamela and Tom were quite cozy in his bed, under a heavy duvet and several blankets. Tom was wrapped around Pamela, not letting her move as if he was fearful she’d leave and take her heat generating body elsewhere. Granted, she was too comfortable to move, but at some point she wanted to wash her face and brush her teeth. 

“Want to wash my face,” Pamela finally admitted. “Teeth need brushing.”

“How are you not sleepy?” Tom grumbled into her shoulder. “You’re always sleepy…unless I didn’t do something right.”

Tom pulled himself up and looked at her through narrowed eyes. 

“Am sleepy. Need to brush my face and wash my teeth,” Pamela mumbled, trying to keep her eyes open. 

“Brush your face? I wouldn’t suggest that, though, I do know some women swear by it. How do you wash your teeth?”

“No joking. Bad Thomas,” Pamela grumbled, trying to push him away and failing. “Need face clean and tooth putting.”

“Tooth putting?”

“Stop mocking!”

Tom laughed, rolling over to let her up. Slowly, Pamela pried herself out of the bed, found what she hoped was Tom’s formerly wet t-shirt, pulled it over her head to ward off the cold, and headed for the bathroom. After doing her business in the bathroom, she ambled back into the bedroom to find a wide awake Tom watching her with a rather hungry expression on his face. 

“You ought to wear my shirts more often,” he said in a low tone. “Get over here.”

“No. Sleepy.”

“Get over here and you can go to sleep.”

Pamela gave him a look and slowly headed for the bed. She didn’t make it completely before Tom used his longer limbs to pull her into the bed and flipped her onto her back. Pamela let out a squeak. He ran his hands over her body through the fabric of the thin shirt.

“Yes, I think you need to wear this more often.”

“I’m not leaving the Air Force,” Pamela blurted out, feeling more awake after her trip to the bathroom and the shock of getting thrown into bed. 

Tom’s hands stopped moving. “Pardon?”

“I’m not leaving unless they make me.”

“Pamela, darling dove, now is not the time—”

“Now is the time because I’m….honest.”

“You’re honest when you’re sleepy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t wanna leave.”

“The Air Force?”

“You.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“The Air Force does,” Pamela said. “They make me stay in Enid and make it hard for me to see you.”

“I make it hard for you to see me just as much, love,” Tom said quietly, settling on the bed next to her. He knitted his eyebrows together. “You do know, if we wish to spend more time together, I could just move in with you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been thinking since you got here, I could live in Enid instead of London. I’d keep the flat, but, you know, I don’t film all that much in London these days so it really doesn’t matter where I live.”

“You can’t live in Enid! It’s…it’s…it’s…Enid,” Pamela finished lamely. 

Tom snorted. “I do what I want.”

“Loki. Bad Loki.”

“We’ll talk about this more in the morning.”

“Ryan.”

“What about him?”

“Do I have to kick him out?”

“No, darling love, he can stay. I’ve got quite a bit of things booked for the next few months anyways,” Tom said, running a hand through Pamela’s hair and unknotting the ends a bit with his fingers. “Are you still sleepy?”

“No. You woke me up. Bad Thomas.”

“Oh, you want bad Thomas?”

Pamela giggled. 

* * *

“Were you serious?”

“About?”

“Moving to Enid?”

“Dove, it’s six in the morning.”

“Were you serious?”

“Why ever not?”

“I can’t picture you in Enid,” Pamela admitted. “It’s…the middle of nowhere Oklahoma.”

“It’s alright,” Tom said. “It’s only an hour to the airport. Or, since I’m a world famous actor, I could invest in an airplane and just have you fly me to wherever I need to be.”

“Oh.”

“Granted, I’d just have you fly me to the airport in Oklahoma City, as I doubt I could afford a plane that could fly across an ocean or the country. Just a little one. Now go back to sleep.”

“And Ryan could stay?”

“Yes. Why ever would you kick him out?”

“Because you’d be there.”

“When I’m not working. I’ve got projects lined up for the next few months and I’d likely be on location or in LA.” 

“So, when would you move?”

“When do you want me to move?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m busy, love. Sorry. I think these soonest I could move would be after I wrap my next film,” Tom said, finally rolling over to face Pamela. “We’re not going back to sleep, are we?”

“You offered to move in with me, of course we’re not going to sleep.”

Tom sighed, rubbed his face, and sat up. 

“Why do I feel like I should be freaking out more?” Pamela quietly asked.

“Why should you freak out?”

“It’s a big commitment. And you’re a foreign national.”

“I’ll deal with the visa issues, darling,” Tom assured. “Don’t worry about it. Actors move to LA all the time from London. I’m just not going to LA.”

“How will you make it appear as if you’re there to work if you live in Enid?”

“I’m unsure,” Tom admitted. “I’ll get it sorted. Unless you don’t want me to move in with you.”

Pamela shook her head. “No. No. I…want it very much. A lot. I want it a lot. Not very much. That’s not proper English, is it?”

Tom chuckled.

“Is it too soon?”

“Is it? You were thinking of forsaking the Air Force, weren’t you? Simply to be able to see me more often,” Tom reminded her.

Pamela nodded. “I was thinking of moving to London.”

“Well, you are not leaving the Air Force so I will vacate London. It’s much easier for me to move than you.”

Pamela nodded. 

“And we’ve got a few months to think on it further, if you wish,” Tom reminded her. “I’ve got the play to finish and a movie to film in Toronto before I will be able to even get to Enid to visit, let alone move anything.”

“Oh god. How will you move?”

Pamela glanced around the flat. 

Tom laughed. “Well, like any normal person moves. I’ll put a few things into boxes, show up at the new location, and unpack.”

“We’re moving in together.”

“Yes.”

“Why do people in movies and TV freak out about this step?”

“Because it creates drama,” Tom replied, wrapping his long arms around Pamela and pulling her into his lap. “Now, I’m going to get up and go for a run. Will you run with me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Tom smiled, kissing the side of her head. “Brilliant.” 

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

_Dorothea_

“Robert.”

“Bob.”

“Kier.”

“No.”

“Charles?”

“Prince Charles.”

“Timothy?”

“My dad is called that.”

“I know. We’d name him after your dad.”

“Roger.”

“Yuck.”

“That’s your dad’s name.”

“We’re not naming him after my dad that way. We’re going to use Judoc for my dad.”

“Well, we’re going to use Cumberbatch for my dad.”

“Carlton.”

“Carlton Judoc Cumberbatch?”

“No! Something Carlton Judoc Cumberbatch.”

“Something? You’re going to name our son _Something_?”

“NO! Something else then the other stuff.”

“Why does he have to have a long arse name like me?”

“Because he’s your son.”

“You don’t have four names. Just three.”

“We could hyphenate Judoc and Cumberbatch. Then he’d only have three.”

“Something Judoc-Cumberbatch. That’s a mouthful.”

“So’s Benedict Cumberbatch and that’s only two names.”

Ben levels me a look as there’s a knock on the door. 

“I want to use Carlton because it’s part of your name, but also so we can call him KC,” I call after him as he exits the kitchen where I’m sitting making lists of names. 

I’ve already picked one: Kerr Carlton Judoc Cumberbatch. 

I’d go with Kier, but Ben just said no to that name. I’ve always liked the name Kerr. And not just because my favorite Chicago Bull was Steve Kerr. (Yeah, I was the weirdo who didn’t like Michael Jordan, but the blond, white guy who shot three pointers.) I think Kerr Cumberbatch sounds fine. It’s short, sweet, and different. And we can call him KC, which sounds like Casey. (Another name I’ve always liked, but I’ve always thought it was more girly than boyish, so I’d never stick my little boy with that name, but I can call him that.)

I circle the name in red marker on the list I’ve been making as I hear someone who is not Ben enter the kitchen. I look up to find Pamela standing in the kitchen, looking a little weirded out. (And only Pamela can look utterly gorgeous while looking as if someone just told her the sun goes round the moon.) 

“What?” I ask, eyeing her. I can hear Tom and Ben talking in the lounge. I glance at the clock and see it’s almost ten in the morning. What the hell are they doing here this early? I’m not even dressed. I’m still in the oversized robe Ben’s mom got me for Christmas. (She said it’d be best to wear when after I give birth and am breast feeding because it zips and is loose. I am wearing it now because I can’t really belt my old robe, as I don’t have a waist.) 

“Thomas is moving to Enid.”

I blink at Pamela.

“I’m not leaving the Air Force.”

“You were going to leave the Air Force?” I ask, feeling utterly bewildered. 

“No. I thought I wanted to, but I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Pamela glances around the kitchen, her eyes falling on the evil expresso machine. “Thomas volunteered to move to Enid, Oklahoma. Enid.”

“At least it’s not Del Rio,” I remind her. “Think about Tom in Del Rio.”

Pamela looks downright horrified. 

“So, you two love birds are going to move in together?”

“Yes. After he films his next movie,” Pamela says, crossing the kitchen to island where I’m sitting. She glances down at what I’m doing. “You’re having a boy?”

“You’re having a boy!”

I startle and look back at the doorway to find Tom standing in the doorway, arms thrown out. Behind him, Ben is rubbing his chest where Tom must have whacked him. 

“Congratulations!”

Tom crosses the space between us and throws his arms around me, squeezing the life out of me. 

“I will assume you suffered from atermoiements and that is why you failed to tell me.”

Ben and I meet eyes then look back at Tom. Pamela is faintly pink. 

“Oops. I forgot. I’m pregnant. And I miss big words.”

“I haven’t seen you since Toronto,” Ben quickly says, moving around Tom and into the kitchen. “Just like I told you. Coffee?”

“You could have phoned me,” Tom pointed out, putting his hands on his hips. 

“We’re not…well, uh….”

“I’ve only told my family and Pamela,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure Ben’s only told his parents. I told Pamela to tell you. Did she forget?”

“You better be naming the child after me,” Tom airily says, grinning like a loon. He pokes his head over my shoulder and says, “Kerr Thomas Carlton Judoc Cumberbatch. I’ll add that to your list as you’ve forgotten Thomas.”

Before I can stop him, he snatches the red pen from my hand and jots down the five name long epithet at the bottom of the list and circles it five times. When he’s finished, he beams at me looking like a five-year-old who just got the last cookie from the cookie jar. 

“So, Pamela and I just dropped by to see if you two had plans for lunch,” Tom says, setting the pen down and going to the pantry and getting the coffee out. He tosses it at Ben, who catches it easily. “I don’t have a performance till tonight, so I can do lunch.”

“Oh.”

I totally forgot Tom was in a play.

I’m in London and I’m not going to see Tom’s play.

OMG.

And I’m still in my pjs and he wants to go to lunch. 

OMG. 

“And, well, I’ve also brought over two tickets for tomorrow afternoon’s performance. You’ll still be around, right?” Tom asked, looking at me. 

“Yeah. Till the New Year,” I answer.

“Good. Now, someone offered me coffee?”

“Yes, Pamela?” Ben asked, pouring some beans into the grinder. He clicks on the kettle so I can have some decaf tea before looking at Pamela when she fails to answer verbally. 

Pamela nods viveriously. 

“I’ve got nothing on today,” Ben says. “Door?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m pregnant.”

The entire kitchen bursts out laughing. I’m not sure what I said was that funny. I am hungry and I am pregnant. I’m also clearly a comedian. 

Who really needs to get dressed if she’s going out in public to eat lunch within the hour. 

 


End file.
